


Spoils of War

by chaospearl



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers - Alternate Ending, Mildly Dubious Consent, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Tentacles, War Trophy, collar and leash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-06 08:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21223922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaospearl/pseuds/chaospearl
Summary: Emet-Selch wins the final battle in the Dying Gasp, and decides to keep the Warrior of Light as his prize.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> August 5 2020: I'd like to apologize to everyone who read this and told me they loved it, because I haven't updated in so long that I'm sure most of you assume I never will. Nah, I'm still here and this is not an abandoned story. I've had a spectacularly awful year so far and I'm just now beginning to pull my head out of my ass and start writing again. I can't guarantee this is the first thing I'll work on, but I do have outlined ideas for it, so hold on for a little while longer! I appreciate all of you more than I can say.

You lay on the ground, bleeding, your weapon broken and useless. The spectral warriors who’d fought with you are gone; destroyed, banished, returned to the wherever and whenever from which the Crystal Exarch had summoned them forth, you don’t know. It doesn’t matter anymore. You’ve lost the battle and Emet-Selch... no, Hades has won, and now you can only pray that he will finish it and kill you before the Light screaming within you can burst out and complete your transformation into a Lightwarden. Your life is forfeit but there is still a desperate hope that the First may yet be spared, and you cannot help but cling to that thought in your final moments.

Hades himself still looms over you, the massive dark wings and scything talons of his monstrous true form pulsing with swirls of black and violet aether, his many tentacle-like limbs writhing in the air. Watching you, waiting as if to be certain of his victory, to satisfy himself that you have no tricks up your torn and bloodied sleeves, no final burst of strength with which to defy him should he let down his guard. He needn’t wait much longer. The Light is boiling inside you and your resistance to it nearly gone.

“Please,” you gasp, “just end it. Kill me, make your victory complete.”

A sudden terror seizes you at the thought that he may have intended this end all along, for you to become a Lightwarden and set upon your friends, ripping into their bodies and devouring their aether as he watches. The Scions had tried desperately to aid you as you faltered during the battle, only for Hades to flick them away like annoying insects. Now they lay helpless on the ground nearby, bound and tethered by that strange dark, writhing aether which coils about their bodies like chains. You know they are alive, all of them, but either they are unconscious or Hades has somehow prevented them from speaking.

Why else would he let them live, if not to amuse himself by forcing you to end them?

You are snapped out of your macabre thoughts by a deep rumbling sound that seems to echo across the emptiness of the void on which this battleground was wrought, and you realize that Hades is laughing. Aether coalesces around his huge form in wreaths of mist, and he steps out of the haze in his mortal guise. Emet-Selch walks towards you, a satisfied smile twitching on his lips.

“Oh, my dear hero,” he says, shaking his head in amusement. “My victory is already total and complete. Why wouldn’t I wish for you to share in it with me? I never intended to kill you.”

He gazes down on your trembling, prone form, and you are suffused by horror as the Light wracks your body once more. You cannot stop it, haven’t even the strength to scream.

“Mmm, I think not,” he says, his voice barely registering through the fog of pain and terror and hatred that your world has become. “You’re of no use to me as a Lightwarden, hero. It seems I’ll need to offer my assistance once more; do make an effort to appreciate it this time.”

He bends down and easily gathers you into his arms as the dark aether swirls about him once more, enveloping you both in violet-tinged blackness. As his Darkness touches you, the Light bursting forth immediately recedes and you can’t help the desperate sound of relief you make, or your undignified squeak when he tips your chin up and presses his lips to yours. Your mouth opens unbidden before reality can catch up, and when he licks at your bottom lip and slips his tongue inside, his aether follows, filling your mouth and sliding down your throat, rushing into your body as if chasing down the retreating Light.

The cool Darkness surrounds you and blooms inside you, denying the Light everywhere it touches, snuffing it out like a candle. Light continues to spill from your skin but the Darkness is there to meet it, soothing the burning heat, calming the boiling flood of it inside and out. Through it all you are dimly aware that Emet-Selch is still kissing you and you cling to him like a lifeline, shivering in his arms as he nips at your throat with teeth that are sharper than they should be. Whatever scheme he has in mind, it will be preferable to completing the transformation and murdering your friends.

Hours, days, eternities pass this way, the Ascian’s Dark aether absorbing your Light as he kisses you. Or perhaps it is only a few minutes, but eventually it is done. The excess, hungry Light inside you is entirely spent and all that remains is the spark of Her blessing, as it always has been. You are completely, utterly exhausted, but now is not the time to give in to oblivion’s sweet call. You will not become a Lightwarden, but there is no time to savor the relief that comes rushing in at your escape from that fate. After all you are still defeated and in the hands of your enemy, and in a most literal fashion. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, indeed.

Now that the Light no longer seethes and boils within you, you’re becoming very aware of the more physical hurts you suffered during the battle. Your body aches, it hurts to take a breath and you know one or more of your ribs are broken, as is your arm from the moment when a grasping tentacle snapped your weapon into pieces. Your blood stains Emet-Selch’s clothing where he holds you pressed against him, the bright red matting the fur of his overcoat’s collar and soaking his sleeves.

Following your gaze to the bloodstained mess you’re making of his Imperial raiments, he heaves an aggrieved sigh. “You fought well, hero, though you must know it was a rather pointless gesture. Allow me to tend to the damage your futile efforts have wrought.”

He shifts your weight in his arms and bends down as if to set you onto your feet, but your half-stifled cry of pain causes him to pause, realizing the unlikelihood that you will be able to stand on your own. “So fragile,” he murmurs, placing a soft kiss on the crown of your head, and you blink in confusion. Then you’re gritting your teeth in pain again as he moves you, laying you down onto something soft-feeling that cradles your body, supporting your neck and the back of your head, your shoulders, waist, under your knees… with a start you realize that Emet-Selch has loosened his hold on his mortal form just enough to allow the tentacle-like limbs to reappear. They hold you aloft easily and gently, suspending your broken, bleeding body in the air before him, and a look of genuine regret comes over his face.

“Be still,” he chides as you wriggle in the hold of the strange appendages, trying to see where they connect to the rest of him. You feel uncomfortably exposed and so very helpless, held up like this as Emet-Selch examines you. One gloved hand comes up in the beginning of a familiar gesture, but he halts before the expected snap, a pained expression crossing his regal features. Delicately wrinkling his nose at the formerly white silk now colored nearly crimson with your blood, the Ascian pulls off first one glove and then the other, dropping them to the ground with an expression of resignation. You can’t help but notice that his pale hands have tips of gleaming gold, wickedly sharp and closer to claws than fingernails.

He snaps, and your eyes widen in shock. Your armor, your clothing, has vanished, leaving you clad only in a thin undergarment that covers your hips, leaving your breasts bare to his gaze. You instinctively try to bring your arms up to cover yourself, but your wrists are being restrained by the tentacles. Caught between embarrassment and fear of what he intends to do, you let out a little whimper and then immediately begin to flush, humiliated by the sound. You are accustomed to being strong, powerful, in control. You walk without hesitation into dangers no one else is capable of facing, and you are no stranger to pain and injury, fighting on even when your body is grievously wounded. You stand tall through grief and fear and horror, letting others lean on your strength.

You’ve never felt this helpless before. Not even when you were a green adventurer taken captive by the Amal’jaa, waiting to be sacrificed to the primal Ifrit long before you knew Hydaelyn’s blessing would protect you from tempering. At least then you had a chance to fight. Now the battle is long over, you have lost, and all that is left is to endure. You cannot even struggle, held firmly in the grip of your enemy with your broken body displayed nearly nude for him. You squeeze your eyes shut and are horrified to feel tears trickle unbidden down your cheeks.

“Shhh.” You feel his fingers gently brushing away your tears, a cool slide against your skin as the surface of one lethal claw touches your face, carefully keeping the razor edge away from your delicate skin. You open your eyes, expecting to see a mocking smirk. Instead Emet-Selch is watching you with concern in his golden eyes, and you can’t help but feel the emotion is genuine though you don’t understand why.

“You’re going to bleed out unless your wounds are healed soon,” he says, “and for that I’ll need to touch you. I have not lied to you, my dear, so please trust me that I mean you no harm. I intend to keep you and I’d prefer my prize alive and undamaged.”

Your eyes widen and new panic begins to thrill through your veins at this last declaration, but it doesn’t matter whether you trust him or not; there’s nothing you can do to stop him as he begins running his hands over your body. His touch is light, barely brushing against your skin, and it leaves behind a cool, shivery sensation that raises tiny hairs on your arms. Now and then he presses down gently on particularly painful areas, his hands warm against your chilled skin, and you realize he’s healing injuries inside your body as his aether washes over you, finding the places where you’re bleeding and repairing them.

After only a few moments the shivery feeling recedes, taking your pain with it and leaving your body entirely good as new, and you wonder why it surprises you that Ascians should possess such potent healing magic. Your experiences with Emet-Selch, after all, have taught you how very little you know of the powers they command -- a thought that is borne out yet again when he snaps his fingers and a veil of dark aether surrounds you once more, as you struggle in the unyielding grip of the tentacles that still hold you fast. It sinks painlessly into your skin and you feel something solid beginning to coalesce around your neck, constricting until it encircles your throat firmly but without discomfort. Realizing with horror what it must be, you tug desperately at the tentacle restraining your wrists and this time Emet-Selch releases you, allowing you to grope blindly at your neck, fingers scrabbling to find a catch or fastening. There is none, of course. The collar is formed of a smooth unbroken substance that cannot be true metal; it is warm against your skin and pulses very faintly in time with the frantic beating of your heart. You know without being told that it will not come off unless Emet-Selch wills it.

“Enjoying your new jewelry, my dear?” he asks, voice radiating satisfaction and smugness. You glare at him in helpless defiance and his smile only widens. “Ah, but allow me to explain. That, hero, is an obedience collar. A personal creation of mine of which I admit I am rather proud. You’ll find yourself quite incapable of defying my wishes, though for now we’ll begin simply: you are not to attack me in any way, nor will you lie to me. I’ve given you only the truth and I expect to receive it in return.”

“You absolute _bastard_,” you spit out, grinding your teeth. Now that your injuries are healed you find yourself itching for a weapon, just to prove him wrong.

“Now, now. Petty insults are beneath us, my dear. Do at least aspire to a veneer of civility. I am well aware that beneath the warrior’s strength lies a woman of beauty, wit, and charm; I’ll not have you hide yourself from me.”

Your mouth drops open in momentary shock -- Emet-Selch finds you beautiful? -- and he takes advantage of your distraction to release the hold his myriad tentacles have on various parts of your body and let you slide unceremoniously to the ground. You sit there gaping foolishly up at him for a moment before recalling your current state of undress; flushing, you cross your arms over your chest to cover your breasts. The gesture does little to hide your generous curves, but you refuse to let your nakedness bother you any further. It’s exactly what he wants, for you to be embarrassed and off-balance, and so you aren’t going to give him a single onze more of your pride.

Emet-Selch raises an eyebrow at your futile attempt to cover yourself. “Did I not _just say_ that I won’t have you hiding yourself?” he asks, letting out an exasperated noise. “Fine. If you’re so reluctant to have me look upon your body, then by all means.”

Another snap of his fingers and a bundle of white cloth appears in his hands; he tosses it at you unceremoniously and you scramble to catch the soft material before it can land on the ground. Unfolding it, you find that he has given you a dressing robe of rich silk, embroidered in glimmering silver thread and trimmed with fine lace. It crosses your mind to refuse the gift out of simple spite, but you know you’ll feel more comfortable dealing with him once you’re no longer completely exposed, so you put it on. The silk whispers against your skin as you tie the sash around your waist, and it occurs to you that you have never owned anything so fine.

“Thank you,” you say, deciding that there is no point in antagonizing him. He smiles, a genuine expression of pleasure that you have never seen on his face before. It makes him appear softer somehow, and you admit to yourself that Emet-Selch is rather pleasing to look upon, has always been so.

“You are most welcome, my dear,” he says. “You’ll soon discover that I take very good care of that which is mine. If there is anything you desire, you have only to ask; I do aim to please.”

“Anything other than my freedom, I suppose,” you shoot back, uncomfortably reminded of the precarious situation you’re in. You don’t want to belong to him like some sort of prize or a shiny new toy, but he's already demonstrated that you cannot hope to match his power, even surrounded by strong allies. Now you are alone and unaided, and he’s put a damned collar around your neck as if you were an unruly pet. You haven’t yet tested its ability to ensure your obedience, but you have no doubt that it can and will.

“Aside from that,” Emet-Selch agrees, still smiling. “Come now, is it really so onerous to find yourself in my keeping? Are you afraid, hero?” He cocks his head to the side, studying you curiously, as if he truly cannot understand your objection -- but his golden eyes are smirking at you. You’ve never seen anyone smirk like that without the expression touching their lips, but he’s doing it.

“Perhaps this will reassure you, then. I swear to you that you will come to no harm from me nor any other while under my aegis. I’ve no interest in an unwilling partner, and I do not share.”

A great swell of relief rises unbidden within your chest; until this moment you hadn’t been able to admit to yourself how much you feared the very real possibility that he meant to take you as an unwilling concubine. The strange collar pulsing gently at your throat would force you to obey, to spread your legs or open your mouth as he wished, and you would be helpless to fight back. Emet-Selch has never lied to you and indeed, he has no real reason to do so now, with you so completely under his power. You believe his promise that he has no interest in rape, and something inside you finally relaxes.

“What of my friends?” you ask, needing to test how far his goodwill extends. The Scions, along with the Crystal Exarch and Ryne, still lay unmoving where they had fallen during the battle. A closer look proves that they breathe easily as though asleep, and surely would have risen by now had Emet-Selch not found it more convenient that they sleep.

“What of them? I assure you, I’ve no use for that pack of irksome meddlers,” he says, sounding put out. “Although I would like to know how your so-called Crystal Exarch ever managed to send my Tower through the rift of time and space. It is _my_ Tower, despite whatever claim he may believe he has; I designed and built it, it is infused with my aether, and I assure you that it did not have that ability last I checked...” Emet-Selch’s eyes widen for a moment as he trails off, and then he laughs unexpectedly.

“Clever, very clever. I had wondered how he managed to escape without my knowledge. The Tower was my creation and my aether suffuses its very crystal. Your Exarch has gone and bound himself to it, and so it is my magic that now keeps him alive, though I very much doubt he was aware of it. I unwittingly gave him the keys for his own escape, as Amaurot would recognize him as it does me.” He shakes his head in amusement, clearly pleased at having solved the puzzle.

“His name is G’raha,” you say quietly, “and he’s my friend. Please, don’t hurt him. You said that I could ask for anything.”

Emet-Selch makes an annoyed sound. “Of course you would spend my goodwill on behalf of your friends. I will not touch them, hero, if only because doing so would provoke your anger, and I do not wish to cause you distress.”

He raises a hand and snaps, and instantly the sleeping forms of your friends vanish from where they lay. Startled, you give him a questioning look. “I’ve sent them back to the Crystarium,” he says. “We will pay them a visit in the coming days, and I expect you to convince your merry band that it would not be wise to effect a foolish attempt at your rescue. I will not have you stolen away from my keeping.”

“Now, come with me,” Emet-Selch tells you. “I imagine you would like to rest, and we may speak further in more comfortable surroundings.” A dark portal opens before you, swirling with black and violet aether, and he takes your hand and helps you to your feet. Another quick snap of his fingers, and much to your dismay, he now holds a long silvery leash that is attached to the collar around your neck. He tugs gently at it, and having no other choice, you follow him into the portal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a short one-shot consisting of pure delicious porn, but it got out of hand so I split it into chapters. Smut incoming in the next chapter! This is my first fic for this fandom, so please leave me a comment if you can? I'm feeling terribly nervous about it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have good news and bad news for this chapter, and then good news and bad news for this fic as a whole.
> 
> There is smut! Finally! Unfortunately it's only a short scene, because this chapter ended up much longer than I wanted it to be. This story has completely escaped my control and is now rampaging free making a wreckage of all my plans for it. There will definitely be at least one more chapter and very likely more after that; I have Ideas, but I'm not going to tell you what they are because at this point there is a very real fear that the fic will hear my plans and promptly veer off the road onto another direction entirely.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy. And don't yell at me until you read the notes at the end.

The sensation of traversing an Ascian rift-portal is both dizzying and nauseating, as though you’re falling through space in utter darkness having left your stomach behind, and it could have lasted for hours or only a few brief seconds. Disoriented, you half-stumble, half-fall out into sudden brightness and nearly faceplant onto the floor before Emet-Selch catches you, pulling you into his arms. You recover your balance with his help and straighten up, only to find your face mere ilms away from his own. He holds you there for a moment, his breath warm against your skin, eyes swirling like pools of molten gold as he looks at you, and you find yourself thinking once again that he is beautiful. Finally he lets you go and you step backwards quickly, a slight flush creeping up your neck to heat your cheeks. 

“Do you like what you see, hero?” he almost purrs, taking hold of your leash once more. You open your mouth, intending to issue a denial, but the words die soundless in your throat when you try to speak them. Confused, you try again with the same result. The collar around your neck begins to warm against your skin, and you realize then that the wretched thing is enforcing Emet-Selch’s earlier demand that you not lie to him. Immediately you clamp your lips shut, hoping against hope that it will not pry out the truth against your will and force you to embarrass yourself further. Fortunately, it seems that while you cannot speak a lie, silence is acceptable.

Seeing the pained expression on your face, he smirks, and you know that he’s well aware of your dilemma. “Well now, that is an answer in itself,” he says, and you scowl because he’s right.

He’s brought you to a spacious, opulently decorated room with a polished floor of dark marble, the walls lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases and richly framed paintings. A massive fireplace is set into the far wall and this is where Emet-Selch leads you, lazily waving a hand and setting the fire roaring to life in a warm blaze. The room is not nearly so bright at it had first seemed upon emerging from the rift, and the flames send flickering light into its dimly lit space. Emet-Selch settles himself in a comfortable-looking red leather armchair that rests on a thick and fluffy rug in front of the fire, tugging at your leash until you’re standing in front of him.

“Do have a seat,” he says, and you glance around helplessly. There are no other chairs; he clearly means for you to sit upon one of the soft cushions piled near the foot of his. It would serve him right if you chose to sit in his lap instead, but you suspect he might enjoy that a little too much. With a sigh you lower yourself onto the cushions, stretching your legs out to soak in the heat of the fire. He pulls gently at your leash until you figure out what he wants and lean back, resting yourself against his legs. It’s… not uncomfortable, and when he reaches down and runs his fingers through your hair, you can’t help closing your eyes for a moment.

“Where are we?” you ask after a moment. He’s still petting you, stroking your hair and scratching gently at your scalp, and it feels so good that you don’t mind letting him do it. Not that you could stop him.

“Amaurot,” he says. “This is, was, my home. A long time ago.” There is a sadness to his voice, and you feel the absurd urge to do something, say something, to make him smile. You clamp down hard on that feeling; it would serve you well to remember that he is an enemy and you, his captive.

“Why do you not fight, hero?” he asks suddenly. “Why are you not struggling against this, against me, with every breath?”

“I did fight,” you retort with some heat, feeling rather defensive. “I lost, rather spectacularly if you’ll recall. Besides, you put your damned collar around my neck and ordered me not to attack you again. Did you think I’d find some way around it?”

“I expected you would try. Instead, here you are, sitting sweetly docile at my feet. Letting me touch you.”

“I don’t have the auracite anymore,” you remind him, annoyed. “It would be pointless, and if I did find some way to act against you, you might change your mind about hurting me. You might punish my friends in my stead.”

Emet-Selch shakes his head, frustrated. You know that he’s searching for the words of the question he truly wants to ask, to phrase it in a way that forces you to answer without evading or concealing. Finally, he says, “The warrior I have come to know, bright savior of the Source and dark hero of the First, who has foiled the plans of myself and my brethren so many times, would not accept this fate so easily. You are hiding something, and I would know what it is.” 

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think,” you snap, momentarily forgetting that it is not in your best interest to provoke the villain who has captured, collared, and leashed you for his own amusement.

Raising an eyebrow at your insolence, Emet-Selch regards you thoughtfully. Then he smiles, and it is a smile that makes your heart sink into your stomach. His smile says that he has backed you into a corner from which you cannot twist away, and now he will at last have his answers. “Tell me, then,” he says with obvious satisfaction, “what it is I do not know of you that would cause this strange resignation to your fate, this complacent disinclination to rebel with all your might against my possession.”

You feel your collar warming against your throat again in response to his command, and to your horror you find yourself beginning to speak before you even know what it is you will say. You try to cut off the words, stall for time, but it is a useless effort. The only thing you can do is draw this out as best you can and pray that he will be satisfied with your answers before you’ve completely humiliated yourself.

“I’m… tired,” you say, doing your best to control the nervousness in your voice. “I’m so damned tired. It never ends, you know? The world refuses to just stay saved. There’s always another new emergency; a primal to slay, a conspiracy to untangle, some dire looming threat that only I can prevent. I can’t remember the last time I laid down to rest without my mind in chasing itself in circles of stress and worry, worry and stress, and my dreams are filled with horror at what will happen if I fail. There isn’t anyone else capable of doing what I do, and I can’t ever put the burden down, even for a moment, because I’m afraid it will be too heavy to pick back up again.”

It is the truth; the collar will allow no less than total honesty, and you realize it feels good to get this off your chest at last, to unburden yourself to someone who won’t judge you for your weakness or feel guilt at being unable to ease your load or worse, at the necessity of contributing to it. Emet-Selch’s hands have wandered down to your neck and you let out a little sigh as his fingers press into the base of your skull, relieving the coiled-up tension he finds there. You don’t want to relax for fear you’ll reveal too much, but you’re not going to be able to help it at this rate. He says nothing, and the collar’s growing heat warns that your answer is not yet sufficient, so you continue on before you’re forced to.

“I don’t know what your plans are for me, but I don’t think you’re going to hurt me, or… do anything against my will.” You blush slightly, not willing to come out and say what it is you mean, but you’re sure that he knows. You’re sure that he could think of all kinds of ways to describe it, and you move on quickly before some perverse part of your brain can start imagining him saying those words in that silky voice of his. Narrating all the things he has promised he will not do to you without your consent.

“So,” you finish in what you hope is a steady, confident voice, “I suppose you’re offering me a chance to rest for awhile. Since there’s nothing I can do to stop you, I would be a fool not to take it.” _ Please_, you think, _ let that be good enough. _

Of course it’s not good enough. 

“A tidy little answer,” he says, strong fingers having taken up the task of deftly unknotting the muscles in your shoulders and neck, “and true enough, but that is not all. What are you so reluctant to reveal that I must exercise such persistence in prying it from you?” Curiosity wars with exasperation in his tone. “You _ will _ tell me, hero.”

This is exactly what you feared he would ask, and there is absolutely nothing you can do to stop what inevitably happens next. Your mouth opens of its own volition and the words start pouring forth unbidden. “I hate having to be the strong one all the time,” you start out, already cursing yourself for the things you’re about to tell him. “I’m not made to be a leader, it feels false, it feels wrong that everyone defers to me constantly, it makes me uncomfortable. I want someone else to be in control, I want to be told what to do instead of giving the orders.” 

You keep going, unable to stem the tide of confessions. “No one ever asks how I’m doing, whether I’m okay. I only ever wanted someone to take care of me, but there isn’t anyone who can. I’m the only one who can protect them all, and there’s nobody strong enough to protect me, keep me safe. I want to be held, I want to be told I’m beautiful. I want to feel like a woman instead of a warrior.”

That has to be enough, surely it must be enough, but it isn’t. It’s as though a dam formed of pure humiliation has suddenly burst apart, flooding out every onze of private shame you’ve ever hidden deep within your soul.

“When I was a child,” you hear yourself say, “my mother would read to me, books about adventures with heroes and villains. I loved best the parts where the evil villain had captured the beautiful princess, and she would tremble and say, ‘What are you going to do with me?’ It made me feel shivery inside and I didn’t understand why, but I was always disappointed when no dire fate befell those princesses, even though I didn’t really know what it was that I wanted to happen to them.” 

Your face has burst into flames of flustered crimson by now, yet you’re still not done; more words are tumbling out against your will, pulled from deep within by Emet-Selch’s demand that you tell him of your disgraceful desires. You barely even remember those long-ago childhood stories. How much more can there possibly be to say?

“I couldn’t put a name to that yearning until I was much older, and had discovered the ways of man and maid; but even when I understood better what I felt, I still couldn’t satisfy it. I begged a lover to tie me to the bed and do as he pleased, but he would keep asking me what I wanted, what to do next, how to satisfy me. I couldn’t seem to explain that for me to direct his every touch would ruin it, that I needed him to take charge. So I went to anonymous taverns, looking for men who would use me roughly without caring for my pleasure, but that wasn’t what I wanted either and I only felt more shame after such encounters. I finally told myself that whatever I was looking for, it wasn’t something I would ever be able to find. 

“Soon afterwards I met the Scions and became the Warrior of Light, and there was no more time to pursue my own pleasures. The few men I’ve been with since then have expected me to take the lead, and I can’t tell them that it’s not what I want. I’m too well-known now, I’m supposed to be the people’s savior and it is my strength that eases their fears. What would they think of me, to know that their champion craves submission? How could anyone ever respect me again?”

Finally, finally, the collar allows you to cease speaking, and you let out a humiliated groan, wrapping your arms around yourself in abject shame. At some point during your mortifying recitation Emet-Selch had paused his comforting ministrations, but his hands still rest on your shoulders, and suddenly you don’t want him touching you. You lean forward out of his reach, hugging yourself with your eyes trained on the floor, unwilling to endure the mockery that will surely come next. Damn him for forcing you to expose those private, innermost desires, personal fantasies that you have kept carefully buried for fear of ridicule, of not being understood, of having your desperate need used against you exactly as Emet-Selch was doing now. 

He’s tugging at your leash again but you ignore it, shrinking further into yourself in shame and anger. What further debasement does he want of you? Is it not enough that he has stripped you of every last onze of pride along with your freedom?

“Oh, do come here,” he says at last, and you won’t be able to disobey a direct command, but before you even have a chance to try he’s pulling you up and settling you in his lap where you immediately bury your face against his shoulder, not wanting to know what you would find if you looked into those beautiful gold eyes. Mockery, disgust, or perhaps pity, and each worse than the other.

He slides a fingertip beneath your chin and forces your head up to look at him. You can’t help noticing that although the razor-like claws have disappeared, hidden away along with his tentacles beneath ordinary mortal flesh, his fingernails are still long and golden and, you realize with a wince, sharp. A small drop of blood wells up where his nail has pierced your skin, and you watch as Emet-Selch’s eyes dart quickly to it before returning to meet yours. His hands come up to your shoulders, holding you still as he leans forward and slowly, deliberately, licks the blood from your skin. “You should not feel shame for your desires,” he tells you quietly, and then hesitates; as if there is more that he would say, yet clearly something holds him back.

You shiver as he tastes your blood, heart thudding against your ribs; cradled in his lap as you are, it’s impossible not to feel his growing arousal pressing against the small of your back. The silk robe you wear does nothing to disguise the hard peaks of your nipples outlined against the fabric, and one of his hands drifts down across your collarbone and then lower, pausing just above the swell of your breast. A single ilm further and his fingers would slip beneath the silk and find your heated flesh, and you can’t help the needy little sound that escapes your lips.

“Is this what you want?” he purrs in a voice low and seductive, warm breath caressing the shell of your ear. “I would give you such pleasure as you have never known, if you wish it.” 

His offer is unbelievably tempting, but it’s not what you really crave, and both of you know it. You shake your head wordlessly, not trusting yourself to speak just yet. Emet-Selch pulls you closer up against him, one arm wrapped around your waist while his other hand absently strokes the soft skin of your exposed thigh where your robe has fallen part way open. You lay your head on his shoulder and sigh softly, for now just letting yourself enjoy being held. You have not felt comforted in this way for such a very long time, and you finally allow in the unsettling thought that here is someone strong enough to protect you, keep you safe, make you feel feminine and delicate. The only problem is that the singular danger from which you most need to be guarded… is him.

“I could never have dared dream of this,” Emet-Selch says softly after a moment, almost as if talking to himself. “That you would come into my keeping was long expected, for there was never another end to our tale; you the hero and I the villain, and you could not have helped but challenge me even had you understood how futile such a thing would be. I wished to have you and knew all I need do was wait.” 

You bristle slightly at this, his self-assured certainty that you were always fated to be his… pet, toy, however it is he thinks of you, besides simply _ his_. All those little moments you and he had shared together during your adventures in Norvrandt as you pursued the Lightwardens, all the times he had spoken intimately to you alone, had he simply been biding his time until he could keep you? You suppose it no longer matters. He has what he wanted, and it only remains to be seen if you will be able to accept what you want.

“I assumed that as the architect of your downfall I would be met with anger and hostility,” he continues, “even as I hoped that in time you would accept the inevitability of your new circumstances, that we might reach an agreeable arrangement. I was prepared, hero, to wait years for you to tolerate my presence, longer still until you might accept my touch…” he trails off, and his arm around your waist tightens further as he struggles visibly with some unnamed emotion.

You don’t understand. He’s not making any sense. “Why?” you ask, confused. “Why would you be that patient, how could I possibly be worth that much effort? Is it because of who I am?” It occurs to you that perhaps there is some deeper Ascian scheme at work here, something to do with Hydaelyn perhaps, but that doesn’t seem right somehow. Emet-Selch’s behavior towards you feels more personal than that, more intimate, as if it is you he wants and not what you are or whom you represent. 

“It is because of who you _were_, hero,” he says finally, as if having reached a decision. “You were mine once before, and after so very long you are mine again now; you have always belonged to me. You _will_ _always_ be mine.” 

For a moment you can’t breathe; now, suddenly, you understand. You understand everything. Emet-Selch had spoken of how the world was once whole, of the Final Days of terror in Amaurot and the desperate, terrible sacrifice made to create Zodiark, to give the very star a will of its own in the hope of salvation. How the gamble had paid off yet it was not enough, how more and more lives were demanded until finally some among the survivors could bear no more and so Hydaelyn was summoned in opposition to Him, and She sundered the world and shattered existence itself in order to cage Zodiark. Only three were left Unsundered, Emet-Selch among them. Families were gone, friends taken, loved ones split into pieces and their broken souls scattered among the shards of the world. Did he still feel fortunate, after so many long, empty millennia of loneliness? You have no memories of whom you once were, but you know without being told that he had loved you, that he loves you still; hopelessly, desperately, enough to do whatever it will take to have you by his side, to wait as long as he must for your acceptance.

“I would wait for you for all eternity,” he says softly, his fingers returned to stroking gently through your hair, and it confirms what you already knew. “You are worth everything to me, anything I must do to keep you, my beautiful, precious hero. Yet you have played the part of that hero so very well, so strong and fierce, determined to stand in the way of all that threatens those you have sworn to protect.” 

“I would never have imagined that you crave the control of another, that you would again be so sweetly submissive as you were long ago.” These last words are nearly whispered, and Emet-Selch lets out a shuddering breath.

He tilts your chin up to look at him once more, and his golden eyes are dark with need. “I would have you give yourself to me,” he murmurs, “submit to me willingly and completely. I will teach you to please me and to serve and obey as I wish,” his voice softens, “and I will cherish you as you deserve to be cherished, keep you safe and protected, care for your every need. Anything you desire that is within my power, I will give you. You need only accept your place at my side. Is it not everything your very soul has craved?”

You should refuse him. You are a hero and he a villain; you have a duty, a responsibility not to give in or give up, to keep fighting when it seems that all hope is lost. You should struggle against this forced captivity, biding your time, learning how you might break free of the collar and defy him once again, rise up over and over no matter the cost to yourself, no matter the price you will pay. You should...

You will do none of those things.

The time for doing what you should is ended; for once in your life you choose to do as your heart wishes.

“Yes,” you whisper.

The sound Emet-Selch makes is almost a sob; he crushes you against him, burying his face into your hair with a long, shuddering breath. “Mine,” he murmurs against your ear, “you are mine, I will not ever let you go, I won’t lose you again, never again.” He repeats it over and over like a mantra before lapsing into an unfamiliar language that almost seems as if you’ve heard it before; though you have no idea what it could be, you somehow know that he’s telling you how he feels, how much he needs you, whispering sweet nonsense of the sort that lovers share. You wonder if he’s even aware of what he’s saying.

It takes some time, but eventually he manages to pull himself together, and with a final soft sigh he relaxes his desperate embrace and looks up at you. He is smiling, a pure, joyous expression of hope and happiness, and unexpectedly you feel your heart leap in your chest to see it. “Well, hero, my treasure,” he says. “You may consider yourself the captured princess, and I shall play your dashing evil villain. Do go ahead.”

Emet-Selch tilts his head to one side and looks at you expectantly, and you smile back at him, delighted by his playfulness. “What are you going to do with me?” you ask. You’re not trembling, but the smouldering gaze he gives you in return sends a pleasant shiver down your spine nonetheless. 

“Mmm. I believe I will indulge myself,” he says, circling your waist with both hands and shifting you slightly on his lap so that his erection presses firmly against your arse. “You will not find this story in any children’s book of tales,” he murmurs, and the look in his golden eyes is pure sin. You wriggle a bit, grinding down against him, and he twitches and blows out a sharp breath.

“Let us begin your lessons in how best to please me,” he says, suddenly serious, “and there is one thing you must know above all others. You are mine, my treasure, and I expect you to submit for my pleasure and to obey me in all things, but I would not have you hurt or injured, nor will I force you if you are unwilling. You _ will _tell me if something distresses you.”

You nod slowly, wondering with a brief chill what he may expect of you that he worries about causing you pain, but you quickly put the thought aside. However odd the thought of it may be, it is clear to you that Emet-Selch loves you, deep and true, and you will trust in that. He smiles at you again and leans forward to press a soft kiss against your lips. “Take off your clothes,” he tells you. “I would like to see you, my lovely treasure.”

You slide yourself off of his lap and stand up, rubbing your arse against his bulging arousal and causing him let out a low hiss as you do so, but he is clearly pleased. Turning around to face him, you pull open the sash of the dressing robe you’re wearing and shrug it off, letting the silky fabric slither onto the floor at your feet. Then you unlace the plain undergarment that covers your hips, your fingers trembling slightly, and push it down your thighs, finally stepping out of the bunched-up material and leaving yourself completely nude but for the collar around your neck. The silver leash trails down between your breasts, cold against your bare skin. You look up at Emet-Selch, feeling uncertain and self-conscious, and force yourself to leave your arms at your sides rather than try to cover yourself.

“You are exquisite,” he breathes, staring at you almost ravenously as if a blind man suddenly gifted with sight, his eyes dark with lust. Your face heats at the compliment, and at the way he looks at you with such naked desire. You’ve had men want you before, but not like this. Never like this. He looks at you as though the sight of you has been denied him for a lifetime, and you realize that for him, it has.

Emet-Selch snaps his fingers and one of the plush cushions you’d reclined upon earlier slides across the floor to lay between his feet. “On your knees,” he says breathlessly, and you do as you’re told, sinking onto the cushion as gracefully as you can manage. You know what he wants now, and your heart begins to beat faster in anticipation. Another snap and most of Emet-Selch’s clothing has vanished, leaving him clad simply in soft black trousers and his boots; inwardly you breathe a sigh of relief, as you would surely have embarrassed yourself and frustrated him in your clumsy efforts to extract him from the intricate and complicated formal attire of Emperor Solus zos Galvus.

You look up at him, and he offers you a lopsided smile. “I shall repeat the question you were so reluctant to answer once before,” he says. “Do you like what you see, my treasure?” He raises one carefully manicured eyebrow.

You don’t know what you were expecting to see beneath all of his layers, but the sight is definitely pleasing to your eyes. His body is lean but toned and strong, with broader shoulders than you might have guessed and visible musculature. “You’re beautiful,” you tell him, and he is, with his chiseled features and golden eyes, and skin so pale it is nearly translucent. His chest is dusted with soft hair that trails down his stomach and disappears tauntingly into the trousers that ride low on narrow hips. As you watch with widening eyes, he carefully undoes the lacings, releasing his trapped erection with a sigh of relief. His cock is flushed pink with arousal, and as he runs his hand along its considerable length a drop of pearly fluid leaks from the tip.

“Open your mouth for me,” he says, watching you with half-lidded eyes, and he brings one hand to the back of your head and pushes gently, guiding you downwards. You flick out your tongue and lick at his swollen head, and the taste of him is unexpectedly sweet as well as salty, leading you to wonder if he has done this on purpose to make the experience more pleasant for you. His fingers twitch against your hair at the feel of your warm tongue, and he lets out a soft noise as you keep going, taking the head into your mouth and closing your lips around him. You like the sound he makes, so you run the flat surface of your tongue across him, licking harder, and he makes it again, nearly purring with pleasure. Pleased, you slide your lips further down his shaft, taking more of his throbbing cock into your mouth, and you hear his breath hitch. “I want to feel you sucking me,” he orders, voice low and breathy.

You do as he asks, pulling your mouth back and sucking deeply on the head of his cock, and he groans with pleasure, fingers tightening in your hair. You bob up and down along his shaft as you alternately lick and suck, occasionally letting your teeth graze so very gently against the head. His cock is twitching and leaking by now and you lap up the sweet-tasting fluid, sweeping his slit with your tongue, coaxing more soft pleasure noises from him. 

He presses your head down further, encouraging you to take him in deep, and you try your best to obey as you feel his cock push against the back of your throat, but you can’t seem to make your reflexes cooperate and your eyes water as you start to choke. You can feel panic rising in your chest, and you take a deep breath before trying again, but the same thing happens. You can’t do what he wants, and you close your eyes and slump dejectedly, afraid of what you’ll see when you look up at him.

“Let me help you, my treasure,” he murmurs. “Just keep your mouth open, and relax your throat for me, you need do nothing else. Relax.”

Obediently you open your mouth once more and he slides himself between your lips, twitching his hips forwards in easy little thrusts, pushing deeper and deeper until he hits the back of your throat again. As you begin to have trouble taking him you feel your collar warming against your skin, ensuring that you obey his order to keep your throat relaxed, and this time you have no problems when his cock slides down as deep as he can go. Shuddering, he pulls back out and then repeats the move, pushing in until your nose is pressed against his pelvic bone. Both of his hands are resting on your head now, holding you still for his pleasure as he thrusts into your mouth, forcing his cock down your throat, over and over. His movements grow faster and rougher, less controlled, his breath coming in soft gasps; until finally his hips stutter and he cries out, saying a name that you have never heard before but know to be yours, as his cock pulses and he spurts warm liquid seed into your mouth. You swallow it all, ignoring the aching in your abused throat, and swirl your tongue against the softening shaft as he pulls himself from your mouth with a pleased sigh.

Wordlessly Emet-Selch hauls you back into his lap, affectionately nuzzling his nose against your neck and breathing in your scent. You rub yourself against his chest like a cat, enjoying the feel of his bare skin on yours, and he smiles at you warmly. “Do you enjoy pleasing me, then?” he asks, but before you can answer his hand is gliding down your body, cupping a breast briefly before his fingers resume their quest, and he slips the hand between your thighs and gives your sex a little stroke. You squeak in surprise and he smirks, clearly pleased by the evidence of your arousal; you are dripping wet, so much so that your inner thighs are slick with it. “Well now,” he says, and you blush.

He pulls his hand from your aching arousal and you can’t help the little whine that escapes you, but he ignores the embarrassing noise, bringing his fingers up to his mouth to sample your taste. You watch, entranced, and his eyes lock with yours as he slowly and carefully licks your need off his fingers, sliding his tongue over the sharp golden nails. Then he startles you again by standing up, still cradling you in his arms.

“Where are we going?” you ask, suddenly dreading the thought of another of those stomach-twisting portals. 

He smiles at you, and it is a wicked, sinful smile. “I will very much enjoy listening to you beg,” he says, and it isn’t an answer.

But it’s the only one you’re going to get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so some things.
> 
> My inner feminist insists that I say this: There is absolutely NO reason why someone cannot be both a savage warrior and also a sexy, feminine woman. The WoL in this story has very different beliefs than I do about sexuality, kink, and the shamefulness thereof. It's a good thing Emet-Selch is here to screw some sense into her, probably in a very literal fashion.
> 
> The other thing I'd like to mention is that I struggled with the tags for this fic, in particular those relating to consent. It is definitely not a rape story, but on the other hand, the WoL is very much a prisoner and the collar she's wearing forces her to obey without question, so the issues of consent are kind of murky. Is it still consentual if you say yes enthusiastically when you didn't have a choice to say no? She only has his word that he has no interest in forcing her. For now I'm leaving this as dubcon, and if I think that needs to change, I'll warn you. If YOU think that needs to change, please please leave me a comment and say so.


End file.
